


A Little Less Conversation, A Little More Action

by hibernate



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Celebrating With Sex, Default Female Ryder, F/F, Sexual Content, Spectre Requisitions Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-10 08:42:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11688084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibernate/pseuds/hibernate
Summary: A moment of peace after Meridian, during which Sloane attempts to answer the age-old question, 'what does it take to shut Ryder up'.





	A Little Less Conversation, A Little More Action

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YourLocalPriestess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourLocalPriestess/gifts).



"I'm not drunk," Ryder says, leaning against the somewhat dented door-frame to her quarters, "I have brain damage. Easy mistake, I know."

Sloane scoffs, pushing past her through the doorway. If you put an AI in your head, you've no room to be surprised if your brain ends up fried. Simple cause and effect. But the Pathfinder finds herself hilarious and Sloane has made it a personal mission to relieve her of that delusion.

The door slides shut behind the two of them, cutting off the bustle of the party out on Hyperion's mangled habitation deck. The Archon is dead and Meridian is theirs — no one would be foolish enough to try to stop people from celebrating, not even Initiative bureaucrats.

"If you're not drinking, that's gonna make it pretty fucking hard for us to share a toast," Sloane points out.

Turning back to Ryder, she crosses her arms in front of her chest. Ryder might be chugging down water tonight, but there’s no way Sloane is going to stay sober cooped up on an Initiative Ark. Too much like the Nexus, built by the same people following the same Initiative standard-issue specs. It makes her skin crawl.

Ryder shrugs. "It was a figure of speech."

"That so? Want me away from your Initiative friends out there? Afraid I'm gonna cause a brawl?"

"Hey, you were enjoying yourself. I almost saw you smile."

Ryder shoots her one of her more obnoxious grins, and Sloane snorts in return, rolling her eyes. "I hear hallucinations aren't uncommon with brain damage."

Relaxing her stance, she glances around the room. The place is a mess, which she supposes is bound to happen if you ram an ark straight down onto the surface of a planet. The gun collection on the shelves along the wall is pristine, though. Clearly someone has priorities.

"These aren't yours," she says, gesturing at the guns.

Ryder offers another shrug and leans back against the shelves opposite the Great Wall of Guns. "It's my dad's quarters."

That makes more sense, from what Sloane knows about Alec Ryder. The guns are relics of another time. Alliance weapons, many of which have made their mark on her hands, molded callouses into her skin, made a home for themselves in her palm. A galaxy away, half a millennium ago; Andromeda is a shithole for sure, but sometimes she still wakes in a cold sweat from dreams of what they left behind. No loss there, nothing worth turning back for even if they could.

"If you won't make a toast," Sloane says, "I will."

There's a half-empty bottle tucked into her belt: a gift, hastily pushed into her hands when their victory had been confirmed. _'I can't drink that anyway'_ , Kandros muttered and then nothing more. Too many things that need to be said, and Sloane doesn't like talking.

It's asari booze, pale green liquid in see-through glass bottle, something Talini used to favor; bitter and sweet in turns. She never indulges on Kadara — wouldn't risk it even now with the Charlatan hiding under some rock or another like a worm — and the numbing buzz of it isn't as comforting as she remembers it.

"To surviving," she says, clutching the bottle in her hand, raising it towards Ryder.

Ryder raises an eyebrow, expression incredulous. "Setting the bar high, are we? That's the best you can do?"

Crossing her arms again, Sloane rests the bottle against her arm. It's long since gone lukewarm. Of course Ryder won't get something like that. She knows nothing of pulling yourself up by your bootstraps when even the damn air around you wants you to give up, lie down and die. Apparently nothing in the universe can touch her.

"You do it better then," she says, and Ryder puts her hand on the neck of the bottle, hand resting against Sloane's sleeve.

Always so fucking presumptuous. The warmth of her hand goes straight through her shirt, making her miss the comforting weight of her armor. It's stuffed away until it can be cleaned and repaired, and she's wearing pants stamped with the Initiative logo on the ass, because whoever designed them clearly had more class than they knew what to do with, and a gray, worn long-sleeved t-shirt the medic procured from who knows where. Beggars can't be choosers.

"Can't very well make it worse, can I?" Ryder says, taking a moment to think, fingers tapping against the bottle in Sloane's hand. "To Meridian," she says. "A golden world. A bright, shining beacon of hope."

Sloane takes a step back, removing the bottle safely from Ryder's reach. "Are you for _serious_?"

"Hey, Addison loves when I do this."

"Addison is full of shit."

Ryder crosses her arms too, mimicking Sloane; she looks thoughtful for a moment, mouth pursing. "To those who should be here instead of us."

Sloane nods, once. Raising the bottle, she takes a sip, the taste sharply bitter on her tongue. "Jien Garson," she says, as the taste turns lingeringly sweet.

She holds the bottle out for Ryder, who, brain damage or not, puts it to her lips, eyes sliding closed for a moment. "Dad."

Alec Ryder, the human Pathfinder who never was. No point in regretting his loss when it's one of so many. What could a man like him have done in a place like this but disappoint? Still, big shoes to fill.

Ryder hands the bottle back, and Sloane hesitates only for a moment before drinking again. "Calix."

There's not much left in the bottle after that. Putting it down on the shelf next to Alec Ryder's guns, Sloane's gaze lingers, fingers itching for the familiar, steadying weight of a magazine clip and the click as it slides into place.

Looking up, Ryder is watching her, a determined look on her face, the same one she used to have every time she brought up the topic of her damn outpost.

Sloane crosses her arms at the same time as Ryder leans forward and kisses her; too carefully, too tenderly, the taste of bitter and sweet asari booze still lingering on her lips.

"Bad idea," Sloane says, when she, after the briefest moment, ducks back.

Ryder waggles her eyebrows. "Or _great_ idea?"

"This why you dragged me in here?"

"It wasn't the _only_ reason."

"You wanna get laid, you got an Ark out there full of people. I'm sure at least one or two of them would jump your bones if you asked nicely."

"What, are you scared?"

"Yeah, your sense of humor is terrifying."

"Celebrate. Live a little." Ryder takes a breath, biting her lip as her eyebrows knit together. "Please don't go. See, I'm asking nicely."

She's here for Kadara, Sloane reminds herself, here to make sure they won't be able to forget the miserable place she calls home. And for Ryder, not that she'd ever tell her that.

She'd called her a lapdog, once or half-a-dozen times, because it got a rise out of her and riling the Pathfinder up always gave her a twisted sense of enjoyment. But the joke's on her — the one who comes running when called seems to be Sloane, not the other way around. All the words in the world don’t matter; when it comes down to it, Ryder asks and Sloane provides.

Only an idiot would look at her and see anything but wonder. She's insufferable, of course, and a damn pain in the ass, not even counting the fact that she's Initiative. But she fucking _glows_. This is an itch that ought not be scratched, but fuck it all to hell. Sloane is sore and drunk, and fighting always did give her a rush.

"Didn't say I was going anywhere," she says.

Ryder smiles like a goddamn sun, and Sloane puts her mouth on hers, if only to remove that smug grin. Hand trailing up to her neck, she grasps her ponytail to hold her in place. Ryder is short enough that they are of a height, but Sloane is stronger and sturdier by far. She doesn’t doubt she could sling Ryder over her shoulder and carry her for a mile.

Ryder's hands run down her sides, and up again, grazing the side of her breasts and all the way down to her hips, following the curve of the bone to her thighs. So fucking handsy, it would drive anyone to distraction.

Ryder kisses her jaw, and Sloane lets her be as gentle as she wants.

"How'd you get this scar?" Ryder asks, lips brushing against the corner of Sloane's mouth.

"None of your business."

Leaning back a little, Ryder's hands come up to cup her face, pressing a line of little kisses under her eyes, on the blue dots she had tattooed an eternity ago. She's aged every bit of those 600 years since arriving in Andromeda, the bags under her eyes and lines betraying a lack of sleep that's become chronic. 

"Who's Calix?"

"Also none of your business."

"Turian, right? Old friend?"

Of course Ryder can't leave well enough alone. Grabbing her by the ponytail, Sloane yanks her head back. "Ryder — do you want to fuck or talk?"

Her cheeks are flushed, mouth red, but however lovely her face looks, it's balanced by that stupid, shit-eating grin. "Actually," she says, "I can do both at the same time. Pathfinder skills, you know."

"You're an ass, Ryder."

"But a lovable ass, right?"

What does it take to shut her up? Sloane kisses her again, putting her weight behind it, which at least occupies her mouth for the time being. Ryder uses her hands instead, which is better for everyone involved. Unbuttoning her pants, Ryder slides her hand inside the waistband, resting her fingers on Sloane's hip, palm against her stomach. 

"Waiting for something?" Sloane asks when nothing more happens, Ryder's hand still and teasing just shy of where Sloane wouldn't mind some pressure right about now.

"Just enjoying the moment."

"Do it on your own time."

Ryder's fingers skim over her underwear, over her thighs, before she slides her hand under the fabric, and Sloane would rather take a bullet right this second than admit what it does to her.

"I've wanted to do this for ages," Ryder says, eyes going a little glassy. Her breaths are shallow, hips giving a subtle motion against the back of the hand she has between Sloane's legs.

Sloane never thought about this at all, but she did spent a long time thinking about putting her hand around her scrawny neck, squeezing. Maybe she pictured it a little too often, every time Ryder pulled another one of her stunts. She puts her hand on her neck, running her thumb along the front of it, feeling her swallow, feeling the vibration of a choked back moan so quiet she can barely hear it.

Sloane kisses her again, sliding her tongue against Ryder's, licking into her mouth until Ryder actually whimpers, which must count as a victory somewhere.

"Sloane," she says. "Can I take your clothes off?"

"If you must."

"I must. Pathfinder business, you know."

"One pun about pathfinding and I'm out."

"Fine." Ryder lifts her chin, smirking like an idiot. "I'll save my jokes for someone who'll appreciate them."

"Good luck with that," Sloane says, adding after a beat, "Sara."

*

In the midst of it, she almost forgot the past months, the past 600 years. Kandros’s voice over the comm, giving _her_ orders instead of the other way around. The weight of her assault rifle in her arms, legs aching from crouching in the tall grass, the smell of blood, burnt flesh and smoke that brought back memories of past days so clearly it almost seemed like she was fighting more than one battle. She'd shaken off this skin, left for a new galaxy, left her mistakes behind only to make them all again, and worse. Fuck Andromeda, fuck the Initiative, fuck Kadara for putting her right back where she started.

Fuck every single one of her exiles: no one would give a damn about those idiots if she didn't make sure they'd listen. Whether they care or not, she'd made a promise — one she'd almost forgotten in the months of bullshit upon bullshit, before a Pathfinder landed on Kadara.

Fuck Ryder for making her believe again that things could change.

She should have kept her clothes on. Pushing Ryder down on her father's bed, there's so much of her, so much of Sloane pressed up against Ryder's naked skin, it gives her vertigo.

"Get up here," Ryder says, a soft-spoken request that might as well be an order. All the worse because she doesn't even mean it like that.

Jien had the same way of speaking, and look where that landed them all. The problem with following someone to the ends of the earth, across galaxies, is that it puts you in a fucking awkward position when they end up dead. If Ryder so much as thinks of keeling over, Sloane won't hesitate to put a gun to her head.

Wrapping her arms around her legs, Ryder nudges her upwards until she's on her knees, thighs spread open over her. _That fucking mouth_ , it smashes through every bit of her composure. Ryder presses her tongue against her clit and Sloane grabs the shelves over the bed, losing herself in the rhythm of it, hips rolling, thighs aching, world narrowing to Ryder's hot breath, her hands on her ass, her mouth, her lips, her mouth, her _mouth_ … 

Well, she's not one to stand on ceremony. Even after she's come and gone; done and utterly finished, she holds on to the shelves for awhile, waiting for her hands to stop shaking. Breath caught high in her chest, shoulders rising with every gulp of air, she's light-headed, woozy.

Ryder moves her hands up to her waist, and Sloane takes the hint, moving down to sit next to Ryder, leaning over her. Wiping a hand over her mouth and chin, Ryder remains on her back, flushed, hair come undone into a frazzled mess.

Sloane puts her hand on her hip, and Ryder practically trembles, pent up and already on the edge. 

"Need anything?" Sloane asks, running her thumb against her thigh. What's there not to like about Ryder like this: pliant and obedient?

"You," Ryder breathes, angling her hips up.

"Dunno," Sloane says, "I got a previous engagement."

"Sadist."

"Brat."

"Is that a jab about my age?"

"I couldn't care less about your age. I'm talking about you being a little shit."

"I'm delightful."

"You're obnoxious."

"You love me."

"Dream on."

Putting her out of her misery, Sloane lets her hand slide down between her legs where she's slippery wet and so, so hot, and Ryder grabs her wrist, fingers digging into her skin as she moans and writhes under her, eyes clenched closed, mouth falling open.

Damn, that fucking face.

Sloane bites down on her lip not to say something stupid she'll end up regretting. "Good enough for you?" she asks instead, pitching her voice low against Ryder's cheek as she lets Ryder grind against her hand how she wants.

"I'm going for suave," Ryder says, in a rush on an exhale. "Is — is it working?"

"Sara," Sloane says, "you know, you're not half as charming as you think you are."

That does it, insults apparently being a twisted kind of turn-on for her. Hips stuttering and thighs clamping down around her hand, a little broken noise escaping her as she comes.

Little shudders run through her body; she relaxes her hold on Sloane's arm. 

Sloane lies down on her side, propping herself up on her elbow. Sprawled out on her back, Ryder looks entirely spent and tousled. On second thought, Sloane decides that this is how she prefers her: fucked out and fucking quiet, for once. 

Like all good things, it doesn't last. 

Sloane stretches out, glancing around to find where her clothes might have ended up, when Ryder slings an arm over her waist, pulling her close. 

"What do you think you're doing?" Sloane demands.

"Come on. You were running around shooting things all day, and I was saving the world and stuff. We deserve some rest. Besides, where else are you going to sleep?"

She has a point. She had assumed she'd stay on her feet all night, but the sex has given her body ideas of its own about rest and sleep. "Fine. Give me some room. No cuddling."

"Yes, ma'am."

Stretching out, her body is still buzzing and she has a sneaking suspicion her thighs are going to be sore in the morning. "This won't change anything."

"What, seeing me naked?"

"No, you idiot. This place. Meridian. It won't change anything. I'm here to make sure Kadara won't be left out in the future. Doesn't mean I'll ever make nice with Tann and the Initiative."

"What about making nice with me?" 

Ryder sounds about as bothered by Sloane's statement as if she'd made an off-hand comment about the weather. It should annoy her more, but it's hard to summon the energy to be pissed off when you're riding a post-sex high. "Do I have a fucking choice?" she mutters.

"Nah, my mom always told me I was impossible."

"Smart woman."

"And for what it's worth, Tann doesn't like me at all."

"Ryder, compared to me I'm sure he thinks you shit rainbows."

That makes her laugh against Sloane's neck, breath warm and tickling, arm tugging her closer.

Sloane removes her arm with a firm grip on her wrist. "What did I say about cuddling?"

"Huddling for warmth?" Ryder suggests.

"Try it again and you'll be missing one arm."

"I don't know about that," Ryder says. "I think I can convince you."

The problem is, if the past few months are anything to go by, she's probably right.


End file.
